


Welcome Home

by DPPatricks



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, M/M, Reunion, Separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 16:32:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: It’s 2014. Captain Ken Hutchinson has been retired from the BCPD for six years but has never given up the search for his missing partner.





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Flamingo's Archive.net site in October, '14, this was my first SH slashy story (slash readers, don't get your hopes up; it isn't, really). Having just written 'Thirty-three Years....' I felt I needed to write a contemporary piece for Hutch. And, since I'd been in the event described, I used my experiences.  
> I thank Keri Mera for her "Chaos Universe", especially the final chapter, "Fractures," which inspired the kernel of this story. Flamingo also has my sincere gratitude, for everything!  
> And, again, I'm grateful to taass for her comprehensive editorial input. She really, REALLY helped me with this one. Any errors, mistakes and poor writing that remain, are mine.

It’s a gorgeous morning in late October and Ken Hutchinson is in his garden. As he cuts another dying leaf and lets it fall to his compost basket, a flock of seagulls squawks from his pocket. Taking off his gloves, he digs the phone out of his sweatsuit pants pocket, checks the number but doesn’t recognize it immediately. “Hello.”

“Captain Hutchinson? This is Marjorie Shepard, at the Amnesia Project.”

Hutch’s stomach clinches but he tries to keep his voice calm. “It’s been a while, Marjorie. But, please call me Ken. Retired, you know?

“Right. Ken. I’ll remember.”

She doesn’t say anything for a few moments and his stomach clinch threatens to move to his lungs and heart. “Is he there?”

“I don’t know. The description fits. But I’ve said that before, haven’t I?

“Can you tell me anything at all?”

She is undoubtedly doing her professional best to sound neutral but her voice betrays her excitement. “He came in this morning, a couple of hours ago. I didn’t want to call you too soon this time, so we did a little research first and his story checks. He’s a long-haul trucker - wait ’til you see his rig. Anyway, he says he’s had amnesia since February, ’94... And, he fits the description.”

Hutch has been down this road before but, still, he finds he’s having a little trouble breathing evenly. “Please don’t let him leave.”

“Don’t worry, Ken. He wants to remember, and I think he believes we’re his best chance.”

Hutch has already dropped his shears and gloves in the basket and is heading into the house. “It’ll take me at least an hour.”

“Don’t rush! Please, take your time and drive safe. He’ll be here.”

“Thank you, Marjorie. Thank you!

“See you soon.”

He disconnects, hurries inside the house and up the stairs to the bedroom. Normally, after gardening all morning, he’d grab a shower before going out anywhere but, right now, he doesn’t want to waste a second. Tossing the phone on the dresser next to his wallet, he strips off his sweatshirt, opens the closet door and pulls out the first pair of jeans within reach, plus the long sleeved plaid shirt hanging next to them; goes to the dresser and gets out socks, shorts, a t-shirt and belt. He changes into these fresh clothes as quickly as he’s ever done in his life, crosses to the dresser and shoves his wallet, phone, car keys, change, etc., into his pockets. From the top front drawer he takes out a holstered Walther and clips the holster to his belt.

Not needing consciously to think about these activities, he tries to get his emotions under control. It has been more than twenty years since that early morning in February, 1994, when the world collapsed on the L.A. basin; the Northridge earthquake. He hasn’t heard a word from his best friend and partner, David Starsky, since that night.

Running down the stairs and out the front door, he does remember to lock it behind him, then hurries to the brown Prius in the driveway; opens it remotely, gets in, starts it and backs out into the street.

On the drive inland to the Four-Oh-Five freeway, he’s especially cautious - nothing must happen on this trip; he has to get to the center as quickly as possible, but safely. Allowing his mind to segment itself, as he has taught himself to do, part is concentrated on his careful driving, part on centering himself, calming his fractured nerves and reining in his, as yet, unfounded hopes, part on the voice he still hears in his heart: Starsky, calling him from San Bernardino, saying he was ditching the last day of the seminar, after one more meeting, and heading home. He’d be late, not to wait up, but he’d be there as soon as he could.

Then nothing. For over twenty years. Not one word. His car had been found the next day, with three others, in the ruins of one of the collapsed sections of the Santa Monica freeway. It had been ransacked, as had the other wrecked vehicles, and the bodies of the five occupants of those vehicles. But no trace had been found of his partner. In the weeks that followed, he’d scoured all hospitals, clinics, shelters and triage centers, but Starsky’s description could have fit so many of the victims no one was able to tell him anything. He had visited every facility housing the dead, and viewed every male body. He was sure his partner hadn’t been killed in the freeway collapse, and hadn’t turned up, dead or injured, later. But where was he? It was as if the earth, which had ruptured so badly that night, had swallowed David Starsky.

“Please, God, let it be him this time. Please.”

The Prius makes its way up the Four-Oh-Five, then merges West onto the Ventura freeway; turns North on Topanga Canyon Blvd, and finds its way to the parking lot of the Amnesia Project center.

Hutch scrambles out of the car, sets the alarm automatically, and runs to the front entrance. Marjorie is waiting for him just inside the doors, a calming smile on her face.

“Take it easy, Ken, he’s still here. He’s drunk nearly a pot of coffee and finished off our donuts. He’s also read every one of our brochures. Twice!” 

“What have you told him?”

“Only that I was going to call someone who might know him. He asked questions, of course, but I said he’d need to be patient.” She smiles. “I don’t think patience is his strong suit. But he really wants to remember, and says he’s willing to talk to anyone who can help him do that.”

Hutch shakes himself, mentally. “Where is he?”

“The Day Room. Nadine’s going around to the Village Café for everyone’s lunch order. Can we bring you something?”

“No. Thanks. Not hungry.” He starts to walk past her but, stops, curious. “Did he order anything?”

She smiles. “What would you guess?”

He thinks about it, but only for a moment. “Cheeseburger. Or burrito.”

Her smile brightens. “Cravings have nothing to do with memory, they’re visceral. He asked for a cheeseburger and fries.”

Hutch has to take a steadying breath. “It’s him. Isn’t it?

She puts a gentle hand on his arm. “I hope so. But try to go easy, Ken. This will be difficult, for both of you. You don’t want to spook him. He’s lived the past twenty years without any memory of his prior life, and he’s evidently built a good new one. If something you do or say should threaten that life in any way, you might lose him; he could leave and we’ll never see him again.” She pauses for a moment, while Hutch has a chance to absorb what she said. “But he came here looking for help. He wants to know.”

He tries to reassure her, as well as himself. Kissing her cheek lightly, he smiles: “I’ll do my best.”

He turns and hurries toward the back of the facility. At the double doors identified as DAY ROOM, he hesitates for a long moment, then pushes one of the doors open and walks into the room.

A man is sitting in a chair next to a small table near the windows, watching the birds in the shrubbery outside, the hummers at their feeder. He is sitting, backwards on the chair, his arms crossed across the back, his head canted at an angle, the graying dark brown curly hair catching the light. Hutch knows he’s made no sound but some sense has evidently told the man he is being observed because he slowly turns and looks directly at Hutch. It takes all his inner strength and determination not to rush across the room and grab his partner in a bear hug. Because, it _is_ Starsky. There’s not the slightest doubt in his mind. Or in his heart. But he forces himself to wait; he can’t afford to rush things. Not now. Not after so long.

The figure gets up and walks toward him, his right hand extending. Hutch hurries forward and grasps it. “Hi. I’m Adam” the man says. Hutch can’t keep the nanosecond’s hurt from his eyes and it is seen. “’s not my real name, of course. It’s the one they gave me at the shelter.” ‘Adam’ lets his hand go. “But you know my real name, don’t you? You know me.”

Hutch needs some time, this is going too quickly. He gestures toward the table ‘Adam’ was sitting at. “Let’s sit down.”

‘Adam’ turns away, obviously disappointed not to have his question answered immediately. “Sure. Patience.” Then his expression clears and he smiles. “Hey, you want some coffee? I drank all there was, but just made a fresh pot.”

“Yes. Please.” Hutch moves with him to the table. ‘Adam’ picks up his empty cup, then goes to the kitchen area where a huge coffee machine is doing its thing.

“Black?”

“Yeah.”

‘Adam’ gets a second cup from the cabinet, pours both, carries them back to the table where Hutch has seated himself. ‘Adam’ sits down, backwards again on the chair, and looks at Hutch. “You’ve got questions first. Okay, I can understand that. I probably would, too…. Whaddaya want to know?”

Hutch realizes they’re both pretty tense. He desperately wants this man across from him to be whole again; to remember the first fifty years of his life. And ‘Adam’ wants those memories back so badly the desire is almost palpable. But Dr. Shepard said ‘go easy…’ so Hutch takes a deep breath, calming himself and, hopefully, his partner at the same time. “Tell me what you remember.”

“That’s simple. Nothing before February seventeenth, 1994. Not one single thing. The first conscious memory I have is of being dragged out of my car - at least I hope it was my car; hope I didn’t steal it or anything…” ‘Adam’ sends a lop-sided grin across the table.

After a moment, when Hutch doesn’t respond to his ‘joke,’ he continues: “A bunch of guys were all around what, from the little I could see, looked like a crash site of some kind. It was completely dark. Have you ever been in a city under a total power blackout? Of course you have, if you were there. Well, I don’t think I ever had, and it was pretty scary. These guys had flashlights and were going through all the piled up cars. A few of them dragged me out of the mess and into a nearby alley, where they took everything I had on, except my shorts and socks. Then they beat on me for a while, and I passed out. When I woke up, around dawn, I couldn’t remember anything except the beating. No idea who I was, where I was, or what had happened. I learned later that I’d been caught in a six point six or seven earthquake. But all I knew at the time was that I was cold. And almost naked. My head really, really hurt, too. So I figured I’d better find some help.”

They both drink their coffee, Hutch waiting patiently. He had gone through the earthquake, too, but he wasn’t there, in the freeway collapse; he doesn’t know what it was like for his partner.

“No bones felt broken so I started walking. I figured out, later, that I must have been on one of the freeway sections that had fallen, and was probably lucky to be alive.” He takes a breath and looks away from Hutch. “Most of the people I saw were in worse shape than I was, and nobody wanted to know about my problems. So I kept walking. I never saw any police or emergency vehicles… I heard, later, that the cops had their hands more than full, trying to keep people and cars off the few streets that weren’t damaged, so that rescue and fire trucks could get through.”

Cups are drained. ‘Adam’ gets up and brings the pot of coffee back to the table, fills both their cups. He raises his eyebrows and smiles, nodding his head toward the doors: “Men’s room is down the hall, to the right.”

Hutch returns the smile as he takes another swallow. “Thanks. I know.”

‘Adam’ sits down again. “About mid-morning, I think, a U-Haul truck came up the street and stopped next to me. Three people got, two men and a woman. They ran around to the back and slid the door up. The inside was crammed with cartons of food snacks and bottled water, and garbage bags of what must have been donated clothing. The woman and one of the men climbed up inside and started looking through the bags. They found me a pair of jeans, a sweat shirt and jacket that fit pretty well, plus a pair of tennis shoes, almost my size. Then they handed me a bottle of water and I drained it. They took the empty back and gave me three more. I stashed them in my new pockets. I also got a bag of potato chips and a wrapper of chocolate chip cookies.” He drinks more coffee. “They said they couldn’t take me with them, but gave me directions to the nearest emergency shelter. Then they climbed back in the truck and drove away. I never knew their names, or what organization they were with. They were just out, driving around, trying to help people.”

At that point Marjorie comes in, carrying a take-out carton. ‘Adam’ gets his cheeseburger and fries, plus a Coke. Hutch gets a tuna salad on whole wheat and a side salad, ‘just in case.’ He takes out his wallet and hands Marjorie two twenties. “Lunch is on me today.” With this, he gives the doctor a huge smile and significant nod, letting her know that the search is finally over. She returns the smile, and leaves.

‘Adam’ bites into his burger with obvious gusto. “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks! This is terrific!”

Hutch tries to hide his smile but isn’t completely successful.

‘Adam’ notices the amused expression. “What?!”

“Nothing.” Hutch unwraps his sandwich, and begins to eat, realizing he is pretty hungry, after all. As he absentmindedly chews, he can’t keep his eyes from those of the man across the table. The lop-sided smile is still in place, so he probably isn’t ready to bolt just yet.

After finishing the burger, ‘Adam’ starts on the fries and continues his saga. “I found the shelter but, since I wasn’t badly injured and had no idea who I was or where I was supposed to be, I was way down on the list of priorities. They let me have a cot in a back corner, brought me some food and more water, then told me not to go to sleep until a doctor checked me over. That was easier said than done, ‘cause I was really tired. But they said I probably had a concussion and shouldn’t go to sleep yet. So I walked around the shelter, talking to people, those who wanted to talk, anyway. Desperation. Despair. Hopelessness. Fear. It was pretty awful. But then, I had no memories to compare it to. Anyway, a doctor found me, checked my eyes, felt all around my head, told me I’d bumped the top front pretty badly - I think he figured that out when I nearly screamed - said he didn’t think I had a skull fracture but that, because I couldn’t remember anything, I almost certainly had a severe concussion. He asked how long I’d been awake and I told him about twelve hours. He looked in my eyes again and said, since there was really nothing more he could do for me there, and since all the hospitals were swamped, I might as well stay where I was, and that it would probably be okay if I got some sleep. He said whenever I woke up I should get up and walk around, make sure my balance was okay, my vision didn’t double up on me, my speech wasn’t slurred, and things like that. If I experienced any of those symptoms, I was to come up front. Then he said he’d check on me again in the morning, and left. I went to sleep.”

Both are silent for several minutes, drinking their coffee and finishing their lunch. Finally, ‘Adam’ continues. “When I woke up, sometime during the night, things were a little quieter, but not much. I remembered what I was supposed to do though, so I got up, walked around, visited one of the porta potties - water lines were broken - talked to a couple of people who were grabbing smokes outside, and just generally made sure I wasn’t having any of the symptoms the doc mentioned. Other than the fact that my head was still killing me, someone gave me a couple of aspirin, I was fine. And, since I still couldn’t remember my name, or anything else, they still couldn’t help me. One phone line had been rigged but only emergency calls were allowed. There was no possibility of checking to see if anyone was looking for me. I went back to my cot and fell asleep again. In the morning, the injured had been taken away but more and more people who’d lost their homes and apartments were coming in, desperate for food, clothes, shelter, anything. And the aftershocks were keeping everybody’s nerves raw. So, since nobody there could help me anyway, I left.”

More coffee is drunk, and the cups refilled yet again. “I walked all that day. Found another shelter. Then another. Same thing. I couldn’t tell them anything so they couldn’t tell me anything.” Hutch knows his partner has seen something in his eyes that he wasn’t ready to reveal, but it’s too late. “Now you’re gonna tell me you were lookin’ for me.”

Hutch has to swallow several times before he can speak. “I was… I had to work double shifts because everything was so crazy, but on my own time --”

‘Adam’ can’t seem to help interrupting. “‘Double shifts.’ Doing what?”

Hutch isn’t sure it’s the right time, but… “Cop. I was a cop. At the time, I was a Captain in the Bay City PD. Bay City is a little South of L.A.”

“I’ve been there.”

“My division was Cold Cases, but every cop in the city was focused on restoring order, stopping the looting and vandalism, helping the injured and getting people re-connected. I spent every off-duty hour though, searching shelters, triage centers and hospitals. But no one had your name logged, and your description could have fit hundreds of men.” He pauses for a moment, then continues, softer: “It never occurred to me that you might be suffering from amnesia and couldn’t tell anyone who you were.”

‘Adam’ considers him for several moments. “You were a cop.” Hutch nods. “Was I?”

“Yes… We were partners.”

“How long?”

“Almost twenty years.”

“Jeeessssusssss. I guess if we kept each other around that long we must have been friends, too, huh?”

Hutch answers instantly. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

It takes a moment before ‘Adam’ can respond to that. “I didn’t remember I had a best friend. I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t know.”

‘Adam’ appears grateful for that. “Okay. But there’s something I don’t understand.” Hutch just raises an eyebrow. “I came here to find help getting my memory back… How did the doctor know to call you?”

“When you disappeared, I transferred to Missing Persons.” Hutch can tell that ‘Adam’ doesn’t understand. “You were the Captain of that division.”

Hutch can almost hear the thoughts go through his partner’s mind: _Oh boy, not just any ol’ cop but a Captain, no less?_ Then the reason for the transfer appears to dawn on him. “That way, you could officially keep looking.”

Hutch just nods.

“You never quit, did you?”

“No.”

“But, if it hadn’t occurred to you that I didn’t know who I was, what brought you here in the first place?”

“Well, it was really the other way around. In March, ‘94, Marjorie, Dr. Shepard, came to see me. I didn’t know anything about amnesia, other than the fact that I’d used it as a weapon in a practical joke years before…” At this ‘Adam’ raises en eyebrow in inquiry but Hutch knows that’s a path he can’t take right now; shakes his head as if to say ‘maybe later.’ “… but Dr. Shepard told me that the condition presents in various forms. Some amnesiacs just walk away from their lives, becoming Missing Persons. So she wanted to work with my division, as well as the MP divisions of every other law enforcement agency in Southern California, when she set up this center, trying to help the victims of the earthquake.”

Hutch takes a moment, locks eyes with ‘Adam,’ then continues softly. “That was when it occurred to me you might be one of those victims. She took your photograph and a complete description and has kept the file on her desk ever since… I’ve updated it, once in a while, with age-progression possibilities.”

‘Adam’ is silent, undoubtedly trying to absorb everything he’s heard.

“She’s called me six times, before today, but each of those men turned out to be someone else. We did manage to get them all back with their families though.”

‘Adam’ swallows, then the grin is back: “Seventh time’s the charm, huh?”

Hutch is able to add a smile, too. “Something like that.”

After another few moments, ‘Adam’ has evidently reached the limit of his patience. “Okay. So, who am I?”

Suddenly, Hutch can barely get the words past the obstruction in his throat. “David Michael Starsky.”

“Starsky? What kinda name is _Starsky_?”

Hutch shrugs. “I’m not sure. Your dad was a cop in New York City. Your mom lived there all her life.”

“Past tense? For both?”

“I’m sorry. Your dad was killed when you were a kid. Your mom lived until the Fall of ‘94. I think, after you disappeared, she just gave up. I tried to convince her you weren’t dead, tried to keep her spirits up, but maybe she’d just been through too much, with both of us.”

“You kept in touch with my mother?”

“Of course I did.”

“Why?”

“She was your mom. And a great lady. I loved her.”

Lots and lots of things to think about. But, well, Starsky has one more question: “So, when are you gonna tell me your name?”

“Hutchinson. Ken Hutchinson.”

Starsky reaches across the table. “Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Hutchinson.”

Hutch takes the hand. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Starsky.”

Starsky sits up straighter, takes a deep breath. “Well, that’s something accomplished anyway. I finally know my name. And I seem to have a best friend.” He grins, infectiously. “So, what happens now?”

Hutch is suddenly uncertain. “Well, uh, th… this is going to sound a little strange, but wh… what d’ya say we go home?”

Starsky laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“What? We lived together? Wait! What were we?! Besides best friends and partners?”

Hutch dons his bland cop face. “Nothing besides. We just decided to take advantage of the housing downturn and got a super deal on a little house in Venice. Huggy found it for us.”

An eyebrow is raised at that. “And what… is a ‘Huggy’?”

Hutch smiles. “Our best friend. I’ll tell you all about him. Later. Actually, a couple of detectives in a different division had started buying fixer-uppers a few years before, doing the repairs themselves, then selling at a profit. They talked us into it.”

“What happened to it in the ‘quake?”

“We’d made a lot of upgrades and it had strong bones to start with… it came through without a scratch.”

“You still live there.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to come back, and live there, too?”

“Yes. But only if you want to.”

Starsky turns thoughtful for a few moments. “Some of the brochures here say familiar surroundings can trigger memories. So, sure, I’m game.”

But, suddenly, Hutch has a thought. “You don’t have somewhere else to go? Someone waiting for you?”

“Hell, no! I live in my rig. She’s out back. She’s the only thing waitin’ for me, pal.”

Relieved to have that potential stumbling block out of the way, Hutch gets up. “Well, let’s go find Dr. Shepard. See when she wants you to come back for your full evaluation.”

Starsky had gotten up but sits back down again. “‘Evaluation’?”

Hutch has put away his uncertainty and is all encouragement. “Sure! You’ve read the brochures. They’re going to help you get your memory back. But they have to do a work-up first. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“I thought you were gonna do that.”

“I’ll be part of the help. But they’re the experts.”

Starsky appears, mentally, to be questioning what he is really getting himself into, but then smiles again: “Whatever you say.”

Starsky takes the coffee pot over to the kitchen and puts it back on the hot plate, turning the switch off, then collects the refuse from lunch and puts it in the trash while Hutch washes the two mugs, dries them and puts them back in the cabinet. They walk to the doors, Hutch opens one, gestures Starsky through, follows him.

On the way to Marjorie’s office, they pass the Men’s Room and, without a word, take the detour, as if it was planned.

Coming out, Hutch leads the way to Marjorie’s office; knocks. When they hear her “Come in,” he opens the door and ushers Starsky in ahead of him. Once inside, Hutch steps forward a half-pace. “Dr. Shepard, allow me to introduce… David Starsky.”

She stands up and walks out from behind her desk, extends her hand to the dark-haired man. “Hello, David.” She smiles at him. “It suits you better than Adam.”

He takes her hand, bows over it. “Dr. Shepard.”

“Marjorie, please.”

He continues to hold her hand. “Okay. Marjorie.”

She takes her hand back slowly, turns the smile on Hutch. “Things went well?”

“Very well, thanks. When should we come back for his Eval?”

She turns and picks up her iPad, checks the week’s schedule. “How’s Thursday at ten?”

Starsky looks at Hutch, shrugs. Hutch grins. “Fine with us. We’ll be here.”

“Perfect.” She inputs the information into the device. “Now, then, Dave…” She stops and raises an eyebrow toward him: “May I call you Dave?” He smiles and nods, so she finds her train of thought again. “I was really pretty sure we’d found you this time so I took the liberty of filling these out.” She retrieves a couple of pieces of paper on a clipboard from her desk. “It’s a medical records requisition form. All I need is your signature. We should be able to have your medical history here by late tomorrow. That will save us a great deal of time on Thursday.” She hands him the clipboard.

Starsky scans the two pieces of paper. He looks at Hutch, then at Marjorie. “Thanks for thinking of this, and doing it.” He reads the name at the top, spelling the surname out loud: “S-T-A-R-S-K-Y. Just like it sounds.” Taking the pen from the top of the board, he flips to the second page, takes a deep breath, and signs ‘David M. Starsky’ at the bottom. He hands the board back to Marjorie.

She accepts it with a smile. “I’ll give this to Nadine and she’ll get on it right away. If we have any problems I’ll give you a call, Ken. But I don’t think we will.” She looks back and forth between them. “Are you going home now?”

With a sudden grin, Starsky throws his arm around Hutch’s shoulders. “Yep! I’m told I used to live in a great little house in Venice. My partner, here, is gonna get me re-acquainted with it.”

The arm around his shoulders is something Hutch thought he might never experience again: the physical touch of his soul mate. He tries his best not to let Starsky sense his emotions. It’s too soon. Have to take things slowly.

Marjorie returns their smiles. “I’m glad. Well, then, we’ll see you both on Thursday.”

Starsky reaches and takes her hand again. “Thank you, Marjorie. I really appreciate all your help.” He nods toward her desk, and the folder on the edge. “Sure am glad you kept my file handy.”

“You’re more than welcome, Dave.”

She hugs Hutch, whispers: “I am so happy for you.”

He steps back; smiles a contest-winning smile. “Thank you, Marjorie.”

They turn and walk out of the office, leaving her smiling to herself.

The partners exit the building and Hutch starts toward his Prius. Starsky stops. “Wait! My rig’s in back. It’s too big for up here.”

“Get in. I’ll drive you around.”

Hutch disarms and unlocks the car with his remote; the lights blink and the horn beeps; Starsky opens the passenger door while Hutch walks around to the driver’s side. Starsky hesitates before getting in, looks more closely at the car. “You really drive one of these things?”

Hutch grins at him over the roof. “I really do.”

“I didn’t think they made ‘em this color.”

Hutch’s smile only gets wider. “They don’t.”

Starsky’s jaw drops. “You had somebody custom paint your car mud brown?”

The smile turns thoughtful. “It’s a long story.” He gets in the car. Starsky slides into the passenger seat.

Hutch starts the car and drives around the complex. At the back, in a larger parking lot, is a huge Freightliner. It’s Candy Apple Red. ‘Furst Trucking’ is hand-painted, in bright white, with a white horizontal slash beneath, on the door. Getting out of the Prius, Hutch laughs out loud, and Starsky jumps out his side of the car. “ _What_? What’s wrong with my rig?”

Hutch stifles his laughter. “Nothing… nothing at all. Maybe food isn’t the only thing that’s visceral. Anyway, just wait ‘til you see pictures of the car you used to drive. You’ll understand.”

“Well, okay. But don’t you be laughin’ at her.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Where did you get her anyway?”

“Long story. You want to hear it now, or wait ‘til we get… home?”

Hutch is thinking about just that. “Well, since I’m going to have to give some thought to where we’re going to park it… why not here?”

“Hop in!”

Starsky digs his keys out and hits his own remote. The locks pop open and the fog lights flash. Hutch is surprised. “What? No horn?”

Starsky looks a bit sheepish. “Too loud.”

Hutch grabs the vertical hand rail behind the passenger door, steps up on the running board, opens the door and climbs in. Starsky scurries around the front of the cab, opens his door and climbs into the driver’s seat. He reaches behind and brings out a huge Thermos, unscrews the cap, opens the spout and fills the cap with coffee; closes the spout; holds the cup out to Hutch. “Since we’re such good friends, I figure we can share.”

Hutch takes the cup, unable to keep the grin off his face; sips appreciatively. “I’m listening.” He passes the cup to Starsky, who takes several swallows.

“Well, as I told you, I wandered, shelter to shelter. Tried to get a job but nobody would hire someone with no ID, no references. Except for the clean-up work, of course. I did that for a few days but my head still hurt so bad I couldn’t stay on my feet for more than an hour or so at a time; they needed stronger guys than that, so I kept wandering. I panhandled a bit and I must have looked pretty pathetic because I always had enough money to be able to eat at least once a day.” He drinks and passes the cup to Hutch again.

“About three weeks after I left the last shelter, I met a man in a downtown diner. We got to talking, and I told him my tale of woe. He really listened and when I was finished, he asked if I could drive a big rig. I had to tell him I didn’t know. But he said he could teach me. His partner had quit the road about six months before and Hank was looking for someone to share the driving. We seemed to get along okay, and I sure didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I told him I’d give it a try.”

The cup comes back to him, empty; he refills it and drinks, passes it back. “He taught me to drive this thing, and said I picked it up so fast I must have done some driving before, but I didn’t remember.” He looks the question at Hutch, who manages to hide his smile of remembrance. Now is not the time. “Anyway, during the next fourteen years, we logged over a million miles.” Hutch is astonished but Starsky just shrugs. “I think I’ve been everywhere there are roads. And some places there aren’t.”

Ever the detective, Hutch has thought of something and can’t help asking, “If you didn’t know who you were, how did you get a driver’s license?”

Starsky gives him what might be a ‘good question’ look. “Wondered if you’d wonder about that. Hank helped me get a temporary, as soon as he figured I was good enough to share the driving. The people at the DMV were very nice, really seemed to feel sorry for what I’d been through, and they had lots of people needing replacements and new licenses after the ‘quake. So, with the affidavits we got from the two doctors who had seen me at the shelters - that took some tracking down, believe me - DMV issued a license in the name the shelter had given me, Adam Furst.” He looks at his passenger, as if to say, ‘no imagination.’ “Hank let me use his address.”

Hutch passes the cup back and Starsky pours in the last of the coffee, drinks and passes it to Hutch. “When we were in California again, about two months later, and my memory hadn’t come back, we went to the DMV and they made the temporary license permanent, in that name.” He spreads his hands: “So, here I am, the former specious Adam Furst, now the genuine David Starsky.” For a moment he seems to be thinking about the names, then grins at his new friend. “I like the second name better!”

Hutch happily returns the grin. “So do I.” Then he realizes they’ve gotten off track. “Sorry to have interrupted your story. What happened after the fourteen years?”

Some of Starsky’s good cheer has gone away. “One night on the road, West of Tulsa, Hank died. He was asleep, behind me in the bunk and he just… died. He’d told me he had some sort of heart condition but I never thought he’d go like that.”

More reflection. “Anyway, I found papers in the glove compartment that said the rig was mine. Along with his list of shippers. So I kept driving. Got this paint job in Denver, a few years ago, but didn’t take on a new partner.” He glances at Hutch, who doesn’t have to pretend fascination with the saga.

“Driving alone is slower, so I’ve only put about two hundred fifty thousand miles on her since then.” He shifts around, obviously trying to get more comfortable. “Actually, I’m getting a little too old to be doing all this long distance stuff so, when I saw a segment on some news program about this place…” He gestures toward the complex. “… I figured it was time I got serious about getting my memory back. Did some online research and found out it’s got a really good rep. So I picked up a load coming this direction, dropped it off early this morning and, as they say, the rest is history. I came here. Marjorie called you. You came here. I know my name now…. But I still don’t remember anything.” Hutch finds himself on the receiving end of a long, hard look. “What’s next, Mr. Hutchinson?”

Hutch reaches for the Thermos, puts the cap back on and stows it behind Starsky’s seat. “Next, we go home, Mr. Starsky.”

Starsky gestures out the front window. “Lay on, Macduff.”

Hutch looks at him in mild surprise. “Ya know, most people get that quote wrong. They say ‘lead on…’ But you’re correct. Shakespeare said ‘Lay on.’ Congratulations!”

Starsky’s lop-sided smile is showing again. “I did a lot of reading while Hank was driving.”

“I’ll bet.” Down to business. “I take it you know the city pretty well.” Starsky nods. “But, just so we’re on the same page, we’re going down Topanga Canyon to the Ventura freeway, then East, to the Four-Oh-Five South. Once we get down to Venice, I’ll make sure I don’t lose you on the way to the house. When we get there, I’m going to go on around the corner to a small shopping mall. We know the owner and I’m pretty sure he’ll let us park the rig in his storage yard in the back.” He smiles conspiratorially at Starsky. “He likes having cops living nearby. Even retired cops.”

Starsky nods. “That’s good. So, let’s go, before we get into rush hour.”

“Relax. We’ll be going against most of it. It’ll be a piece o’ cake.”

“Drivin’ this rig, nothing’s ever a piece o’ cake.”

Hutch looks around at the complex dashboard and overhead. “I believe you.”

**************

During the trip back to Venice, Hutch keeps glancing in his rearview mirror, reassuring himself that the big red truck is really there, while his mind sorts questions, feelings, plans, hopes and even dreams. This is almost too good to be true. But he is suddenly very glad he had moved everything of Starsky’s into the spare bedroom a few years before. He’d been going through a terrible bout of depression: angry at Starsky for disappearing; struggling to hold on to the belief that his partner would some day come back, which was warring with the fear that he wouldn’t; eternal hope, balanced against harsh reality. It had been over fifteen years, at that time, he had fairly recently retired, and was staring at the rest of a barren life without Starsky; hope was having difficulty keeping its head above the churning waters. He had felt so bad one night, he had moved all of Starsky’s clothes and belongings into the second bedroom, placing everything carefully, where he thought Starsky would put them himself. That was where Starsky ‘lived,’ from that night on.

And that had worked for a while. But, as the months went by, Hutch found himself sleeping in that room more than his own. That was okay, too. And now, at least Starsky wouldn’t feel too uncomfortable when they got to the house; he’d have his own bedroom and wouldn’t be confused. Hutch had promised himself, during the trip that morning, that if this was Starsky, he would give him all the time he needed. If the closeness was re-discovered, that would be truly wonderful. If it never was, he could live with that, too. Just to have Starsky back, safe and well, was all he could ever ask for.

***************

In the big red truck, Starsky is nearly as emotion-charged as his new/old partner, his best friend. All the years that he’s been wandering, Hutchinson has been searching for him. Him! He’s been needed and wanted and hasn’t known it. It’s humbling. And it feels wonderful. He finds his normal lop-sided smile has grown to a face-splitting grin.

Maneuvering the big rig through the narrow streets of Venice, behind the Prius, takes all Starsky’s skill but, somehow, he isn’t nervous any longer, as he had been when he went to the center. He considers himself a realist, ready for whatever might happen. Hoping it’ll be good, of course. He’s an optimist, too, after all.

*****************

Hutch passes their house, pointing out the window, so that Starsky will know where they’ll be coming back to, continues on to a small street corner shopping center, pulls in and parks in a regular space. Starsky pulls the big rig in and parks, on an angle, in a corner. He climbs down from the truck and walks to Hutch, who is waiting at the front door of the mom-’n’-pop grocery store. Hutch opens the door and gestures Starsky inside, follows.

A wiry little old man, who looks like he could be older than Methuselah’s father, is polishing apples that don’t really need it. He sees Hutch and smiles. “How ya doin’ Cap?” Then he looks more closely at the man beside Hutch, and pales. “Oh, my God. Starsky?… Is it really you?” He takes one stumbling step and, before he falls over, manages to throw his skinny arms around Starsky’s waist and buries his face in the jacket.

Starsky appears stunned; this guy is crying. He throws a bewildered look at Hutch, who is smiling like crazy. So Starsky puts his arms gingerly around the fragile-looking old man. “Yeah. It’s me.”

Finally, Hutch puts a gentle hand on the shop keeper’s shoulder, which settles him enough to step back a pace. He scrubs the tears off his face and looks back and forth between the partners. Then, before either of them can speak, he clinches his fist and hits Starsky in the stomach. “Where have you been, you ingrate? You miserable sonavabitch! Don’t you know what your partner’s been goin’ through?”

Starsky actually steps back. He puts a hand over his smarting stomach, and there’s remorse in his voice. “No. I didn’t know.”

Hutch puts an arm around Starsky’s shoulders and his other hand on the old man’s arm. “Easy there, Sal. It’s a long story but the short version is, he’s back. And being gone was _not_ his fault. Come over to the house tonight, after you close up, and we’ll tell you the whole story. Okay?”

Sal is probably already sorry he reacted so emotionally. “Sure. You gonna feed me?”

Hutch laughs, looks around the shop, making a mental list of things he’ll need for dinner. “You bet! But first….” He leads Sal to the front windows and points to the big red rig. “We need to ask if you’ll let us park that in your yard.”

Sal whistles, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “She’s a real beauty!” Starsky beams at the old man then shoots a ‘There! Ya see?!’ look at Hutch. Hutch just smiles. Sal is already headed for the back door. “Lemme open the gates. Bring ‘er on around.”

As Sal disappears, Starsky hurries outside to the rig, climbs in and fires it up. Hutch directs him around the side of the building to a large fenced and razor-wired storage yard, that already holds numerous RV units, pick-ups, and other vehicles people in the neighborhood evidently have no room for at their houses. Sal has the double gates open, points to a vacant back corner. He and Hutch watch as Starsky expertly maneuvers the rig into place; shuts down, hops out and sets the alarm.

**************

As he walks toward his two friends who are smiling, one at him, one at his truck, Starsky feels a warm glow, the likes of which he can’t remember ever having felt. Jeez, what if he’d never seen that segment on CNN? What if he hadn’t been starting to feel too old for the long haul? What if he’d never researched the Amnesia Project? What if he’d never gone there? What if Marjorie had never connected with BCPD Missing Persons? What if Hutchinson hadn’t given Marjorie the file? What if she hadn’t kept it on her desk? What if….. Damn, he really loved serendipity.

***************

“I’ve got a spare gate key inside you can have,” Sal says, as Starsky joins them.

“Thanks.”

The three men walk back into the store. Hutch grabs a basket and begins selecting items for dinner, a few of the glorious apples… “You like my Apple Crumble, don’t you, Sal?”

“Nawww. I hate it.”

“Thought so.” Hutch’s smile just keeps getting wider.

Starsky asks: “You cook?”

Hutch shares the smile with his partner but doesn’t even hesitate in his progress through the store, selecting items. “So do you.”

Following him, Starsky’s step falters. “Sez who?!”

Hutch just moves to the counter, puts his basket down so that Sal can ring up the purchases. Hutch pays and Starsky bags. Before Sal closes the register, he reaches in the back and takes out a key, hands it to Starsky, but keeps a good hold on it so that Starsky has to meet his eyes. “You stayin’ this time?”

Starsky’s response is immediate. “Yeah.”

Sal lets go; Starsky digs out his key ring and adds the gate key.

“Good. Ya wanna sell your rig?”

“What?”

“‘Cause, if you do, I know a guy who’ll buy it…” He snaps his ancient fingers. “… like that.”

Starsky looks as if he isn’t quite sure yet what to make of this little old guy. “Yeah? Who?”

“Me!”

Before Starsky can respond, Hutch pulls him a few steps away, lowering his voice. Sal can still hear him, of course. “I found out, after the earthquake, that Sal owns a dozen other shopping malls up and down the coast.”

Starsky’s surprise is evident. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They turn back to Sal, who grins. “My great grandson’s a trucker and he’s been lookin’ for his own rig. But he’s picky! Wants something sharp that hasn’t been abused. Yours looks like it fits that description to a T.”

Starsky shakes his head. “I’ve never understood that phrase. What’s a ‘T’?”

“Beats the hell outta me!”

Hutch gathers up his grocery bags. “We’ll see you tonight, then, Sal.”

“I’ll be there!”

Starsky and Hutch go out, climb in the Prius, putting the groceries in the back seat. Starsky voices his doubt. “Was he serious?”

“He sounded serious to me.”

“Should I sell?”

“That’s entirely up to you.”

“I’ll think about it.”

After a drive of half a block, Hutch stops in front of a lovely original Venice house. It’s freshly painted, probably by Hutch himself, a dazzling white with sky blue trim. It’s a two-story but so well designed, it appears smaller. A front porch extends across the width of the house and sports a couple of white wicker chairs, a small wicker table, and dozens of plants. Starsky looks at all the greenery; smiles. “Green thumb, I see.”

Hutch is pulling the grocery bags out of the car; Starsky takes them so that Hutch can find the door key on his key ring. “Stopped leavin’ one on the lintel, did ya?”

They both freeze, Starsky seemingly more surprised than Hutch. The next thought is clear on Starsky’s face: _Oh, shit! Where did that come from?_ He looks at Hutch. “Did you used to do that?”

Soft. “Yeah.”

They both wait, Starsky ‘searching,’ Hutch holding his breath. Finally, Starsky has to shake his head. “Nothin’.” Hutch hides his disappointment so that Starsky won’t feel worse than he already does.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a start.”

They walk up the steps, Starsky looking around for anything that seems familiar. Hutch unlocks the door and goes inside, Starsky follows.

The first floor, inside, is mostly open space, strategically placed pillars bearing the load of the second floor, with lots of windows letting in the late afternoon sunlight. Starsky is still peering around, probably looking for memory triggers, so Hutch takes the bags, and goes to the kitchen at the back, begins putting the groceries away and getting things out for dinner.

A fireplace is centered on the left wall. A comfortable looking couch, a large coffee table, end tables and two arm chairs make up the ‘living room’ furnishings. There are plants everywhere! A beautiful acoustic guitar leans against one of the arm chairs and random piles of newspapers, books, magazines, and cast off clothing cover many surfaces. Between the living room and kitchen is a mismatched dining table and four chairs. Starsky wanders. A stairway against the right hand wall beckons.

“Okay if I go upstairs?”

Hutch doesn’t even turn around. “It’s your house.”

Starsky starts up the stairs; stops. “I forgot my duffel. It’s in the truck.”

“We’ll walk back with Sal tonight and get it.”

Starsky goes on up the stairs, throwing back a “That’ll work.”

Hutch stops in mid-peel of a potato, stares out the window. Without warning, tears begin to slide down his face and, not bothering to try to stop them, he grabs an onion and begins to peel and chop it, in case he needs an excuse. But, after everything that has happened today, the tears feel necessary, as well as cleansing and healing. He closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

****************

Upstairs, Starsky finds two bedrooms, one obviously the ‘master,’ with a huge brass-headboard bed, and a second ‘guest’ bedroom, smaller but still perfectly adequate. This one, he suspects, from the NASCAR bedspread and all the odd mementos, was his. He’ll take time to look more closely at each object later. He stops and thinks to himself: ‘later.’ Well, why not? Suddenly he has all the time in the world, when, just that morning, he’d had no idea where he and his rig would be spending the night.

He leaves the room, checks out the bathroom, with its huge Jacuzzi tub and shower combination - now that wasn’t original equipment in this house; we must have doubled the floor joists and added a bearing wall or two downstairs; closes the door and walks into the master bedroom.

Nice. But Hutchinson must be a bit of a slob; clothes all over the bed and floor as if he’d shed them quickly. Well…. Maybe he had. After Dr. Shepard called, maybe he was in such a hurry, he just didn’t tidy up. Makes sense. He walks across the room, drawn by a framed photograph on the far dresser. Knowing, instinctively, that this is important, he picks it up for a closer look - two young men, their arms around each other’s shoulders, standing on top of a car. A bright red car with a white blaze along its side and up over its roof. The two men are casually dressed, one dark-haired, the other blond, and both display sure-of-themselves expressions. Inexplicably, Starsky feels tears welling. What the hell? He never cries!

This is good though! This is the feeling of friendship, of partnership, of love, that Hutchinson has been giving off since the moment they had first seen each other. He thinks about that; maybe he should feel uncomfortable, being suddenly surrounded by all this unreserved emotion and sense of welcome. But… he doesn’t. He’s not the least bit uneasy. In fact, not once during the past twenty years has he ever felt so completely at peace, so content. So much at…. Home.

He looks slowly around the room again. This room, and everything in it, just feels… right. Maybe this had been his room and Hutchinson had moved into the bigger space when he’d disappeared. Maybe.

Still carrying the photograph, he exits the room and goes back downstairs. As he reaches the bottom, he turns toward the kitchen, holding up the picture. “Hey, Blondie, I see what you mean.”

Hutch’s reaction is not what he expected. Instead of a wisecrack, Hutch drops his knife, which clatters to the floor, and has to grab the edge of the sink to keep from falling. Starsky hurries to him, puts the frame on the counter and both arms around Hutch’s waist to brace him. Then, putting Hutch’s right arm around his shoulders, he guides him out to the dining room, easing him down into a chair. Pulling a second chair over, he sits close, knees bracketing Hutch’s, his hands holding Hutch in the chair. “Hey, easy now… What happened, huh?”

Hutch’s tears have dried, but he’s pale and shaking slightly. He looks at Starsky, uncertainty in the sky-blue eyes. “What made you call me that?”

Starsky doesn’t understand. “What?” Then it hits him. “Oh, you mean, ‘Blondie’?” Hutch can only nod. “Oh, jeez. Is that something I used to call you?” Another nod. “I’m sorry. Don’t read anything into it. It wasn’t a memory or anything. It was just kind of obvious, doncha think? I mean, I’ll bet that’s been one of your nicknames since you were a kid… Right?” He gives Hutch a small, encouraging smile, his hands still holding Hutch’s arms, more lightly now, but still retaining the contact.

Hutch takes a steadying breath; smiles back, somewhat ruefully. “Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.”

“It’s okay. It was just a surprise.”

“I’ll bet it was! But, hey…” Starsky gets up and retrieves the frame from the kitchen counter, brings it back; hands it to Hutch, who has finally gotten his shaking hands under control. “That’s the car you were talking about! ’Cause that’s gotta be us!” Hutch looks down at the image, manages a smile. “I’ll just bet you hated it though….. Didn’t ya?”

Hutch shakes his head. “Not really. We gave each other a hard time about our cars… about a lot of things, actually. But it was just buddy stuff, teasing, jokin’ around.” He looks at Starsky, an almost pleading look in his eyes.

“I get it… At least I think I do.” He gets up and looks toward the kitchen, a little embarrassed for some unknown reason, and needing to change the subject. “Anyway, what’s for dinner? I’m starved!”

Hutch puts the photo on the table, gently, gets up and goes back into the kitchen, during: “Hungarian goulash, a la Anton Rusz. With Apple Crumble for dessert. Wanna peel?”

**********

The dinner is a big success. Hutch can almost hear Starsky’s thoughts as he lifts his first forkful of the goulash: _who is Anton Rusz and why are we eating this stuff?_ But then, after he has taken that bite, his face lights up with pleasure and the next thought is probably something like, _whoever he is, he can cook for us anytime_!

Sal has absorbed ‘the whole story,’ making very few comments and asking few questions. When Starsky has finished, Sal just says: “We missed you, Davey.”

“Thanks, Sal, I really appreciate that.”

Putting the dishes in the kitchen, Hutch comes back to the table. “We’ll walk you home, Sal. Starsky needs to get his duffel from the rig.”

“I’ve already told Louis about her. You mind if he comes by tomorrow and drools a bit?”

Starsky grins. “Just as long as he doesn’t get any on the paint.”

“Would you come over when he’s there? Show him around the cockpit?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“I’ll call you. You got a cell phone? Or are you gonna be using your partner’s number?”

“I got one. It’s in my duffel.”

The three men leave the house and walk, companionably, back to the shopping center, the two taller men on either side of the fragile-seeming oldster. Sal unlocks the gate; Starsky goes to his truck, disarms and unlocks, climbs in on the driver’s side, hauls his duffel out from behind the seat, climbs out and rearms/relocks; and comes back. He digs his phone out, lights up the screen and holds it so that Sal can copy the number into his own phone. Then Sal re-locks the gate and with a “Thanks for dinner!” he heads for his house, next door to the yard.

************

Starsky pockets his phone, hefts the duffel and he and Hutch head for home. Home. Starsky still can’t believe everything that has happened. As they go inside, Starsky drops the bag at the foot of the stairs. “I’ll unpack later. Lemme help with the dishes.”

Kitchen clean up is accomplished quickly and easily, the needed activities being divided without things having to be asked for, or told. Teamwork. Starsky is finally beginning to believe that he and Hutch really were - no, are partners. Hank was a good friend, but this… this is… something else. He doesn’t know quite what, yet. But he sure wants to find out.

*************

With the kitchen chores finished, Starsky looks around, expectation on his face. “What now, oh great swami?” Hutch throws him a _where did that come from_? look. Starsky just shrugs a _no idea_ back.

Hutch isn’t sure how hard to press yet, but Starsky appears to be holding up really well. “Aren’t you tired? It’s been a pretty long day.”

“Naw. Actually, I’m stoked. What did you have in mind?” He tosses a sly look at Hutch and wiggles his eyebrows. “You want to go find a couple of ladies?”

Hutch smiles and shakes his head. God, he’s missed this man so much! He opens the refrigerator and takes out two beers, hands one to Starsky. “No, I was thinking of something else.” He points to the couch. “Go. Sit.”

Starsky falls onto the couch, pops his beer and puts his feet up on the coffee table. Then, suddenly, he jerks them down and sits up straight. Hutch, at the cabinet below the bookcase on the fireplace wall, not even having seen Starsky’s actions, smiles to himself. “That’s okay. You always put your feet there.”

Busy with his bookcase search, Hutch knows his partner has leaned back and returned his feet to the table, probably happy to have discovered something he ‘always did.’

Hutch comes over with a very large scrapbook, places it on Starsky’s legs and sits down next to him, sips his beer. Starsky drops his feet again, scoots back a bit. “What’s this?”

Hutch can’t hide an _oh, gee, that’s a tough one_ , since the word, ‘Scrapbook,’ is written across the front. Starsky runs his fingers around the edges, suddenly seemingly almost afraid.

“It won’t bite.”

Starsky turns the book onto its spine and lets it fall open to the middle. A newspaper article stares back at him: a photograph of a young Starsky and Hutch hustling a hand cuffed suspect into a black and white. The headline reads ‘BCPD’s Dynamic Duo Nabs Alleged Serial Killer.’ Slowly, Starsky reads every word of the article; turns the page and reads the article there. Turns another page, reads. Finally, probably having forgotten the beer warming in his hand, he looks up at Hutch. “You kept a scrapbook on us?”

Hutch shakes his head. “Your mom put it together.”

“My mother did this?”

“You called her every Friday night, when you could. But you never really told her anything about our cases, especially when you were hurt. You didn’t want her to worry. But she was your mother. Worrying was part of her job.”

Starsky points to the tops of the articles. “But these aren’t from New York papers! They’re all from around here… How’d she get them?”

“She must have hired a clip service. Anytime we made headlines, the service evidently sent the articles to her. I guess it’s the only way she could feel close to you.”

“How’d you get this?”

“Nick and I found it, after the funeral. He was looking for some documents and hadn’t wanted to go alone. So I went with him. This was on the coffee table. But neither of us had ever seen it before so I think she must have put it away whenever you and I were there… I’m guessing she was reading everything again, after you disappeared. Nick said I should take it.”

Starsky is looking at the scrapbook again. “Who’s Nick?”

Hutch mentally shrugs; well, that didn’t work. “Your brother. He and his wife live in New York. Their son is a lawyer in Yonkers.”

Starsky is reading another article. “I’ve been there.”

Hutch just smiles.

After Starsky has read a couple more articles, he suddenly closes the book. “Okay. That’s it. Overload.”

“I’m not surprised.” Hutch takes the scrapbook and puts it on the corner of the coffee table. “Look through it whenever you want.” They drink their beer in silence. A long silence. But not uncomfortable. Starsky finishes his, cocks his head as if to ask if Hutch has finished his, gets a negative head shake; stands up and walks to the kitchen, tosses the empty can in the recycle bin. “Think I’ll hit the hay.”

“Good idea. Sleep well.”

Starsky stops on his way to the stairs, waits until Hutch looks at him. “I haven’t said it before and I apologize for that. I’m not used to people doing things for me… Thank you.”

Hutch smiles. “You’re more than welcome.”

Starsky nods acceptance. “Good night.” He picks up his duffel as Hutch returns the “G’night,” heads up the stairs.

Hutch finishes his beer but doesn’t get up. He leans back and rests his head on the back of the couch. “Much more.”

*********

Hutch wakes to the smell of fresh coffee; showers and dresses quickly; goes downstairs. Starsky, coffee mug in hand, is bent over the scrapbook. “Mornin’. There’s coffee.”

“So I can smell.” Hutch goes to the kitchen, pours himself a cup, comes back and sits down next to Starsky, not too close. “How long have you been up?”

“Couple of hours.”

“Sleep okay?”

“Slept great, thanks.”

Hutch drinks his coffee. “Any questions?”

“Yeah… How did I forget all this?”

“That’s what Marjorie is going to help you find out.”

“Some of this stuff reads like a comic book… or science fiction. But…” He puts a hand to his chest. “… I found out where all my scars came from. It says here I died.”

Hutch really doesn’t want to talk about that. Thirty-five years and it’s still too fresh, too searing. His reply comes out almost surly. “Only three minutes. Don’t make a big thing out of it.”

Before Starsky can reply, Hutch is instantly contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Sundance was right, _make_ a big thing out of it. You did die. But you came back. You just weren’t ready to leave yet, the doctors said.”

“Says here you were the one who brought me back. The doctors actually called it a miracle.”

“‘Medical miracle’ I think were their words. Emphasis on the ‘medical’.”

“It also says, in a later article, that I was off work for over a year… And that you took care of me yourself that whole time.” He looks at Hutch for long moments. “Why?”

“We’re partners. You took care of me enough times.” He points at the book. “It’s all in there… Well, not all. There’s nothing in there about the time you helped me kick heroin.”

“I what? Wait! Heroin?”

But this has all suddenly gotten too deep for Hutch and he needs to back off for a bit. “Not now. Okay?” He gets up and takes the scrapbook, puts it on the bookcase cabinet. “I probably shouldn’t have shown that to you until after your first session with Marjorie.”

Starsky gets up and goes after him, pulls him around to face him. He doesn’t appear to be angry, just perplexed. “Hey. That’s my life in there. How else am I gonna find out about it?”

“That’s what Memory Retrieval is for. You’ve read the brochures. Let’s let the experts handle this, okay? At least for now.”

Starsky really has no choice. “Okay.”

Hutch brightens. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s go see Huggy.”

************

Hutch had refused to tell Starsky anything about this ‘Huggy’ on the trip downtown and he had sounded so mysterious, the exterior of ‘Books ‘n’ Beans,’ when they get there, is surprising. Nothing mysterious about it. Just another downtown storefront on a street that appears to have been fully renovated, probably after the ‘quake, to house trendy shops of all kinds.

Hutch parks the Prius about half a block away, plugs the meter, then they walk across the street. Starsky opens the door so that Hutch can precede him, follows him inside.

The interior of the small store is part library, part coffee shop. The right hand wall has floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed with tomes. The rest of the space is a gourmet espresso, cappuccino and coffee boutique. In the rear are machines, grinders, bags and bags of coffee beans and all the accoutrements required for the enjoyment of whatever flavor one might desire. The floor space is packed with small tables and chairs. Hutch heads for the counter at the back but Starsky has stopped just inside the door, staring around in amazement. Hutch comes back to him. “What?”

“You sounded so… secretive when you mentioned this guy, I thought…. Well, I never thought he’d be running a library!”

Hutch takes his arm gently and leads him toward the back. “Come on.”

At the counter, Huggy Bear, a tall, lean - no, skinny - brown man, possibly of Jamaican descent, or one of the Caribbean islands, is preparing a masterpiece of art and gastric delight. The design he is pouring into/onto the caramel-colored liquid in the huge cup looks like a fern frond, and it might just be too pretty to drink! The customer smiles happily. “Beautiful, Huggy! As always. Thank you.” She puts a five and a single on the counter, picks up the cup and saucer and moves to a small unoccupied table, sits down, picks up the cup and rests the lip against her mouth, breathing in the delicious aroma.

Huggy puts the five in the cash register and the single in the Tips jar, then the ingredient containers back where they belong, straightens up and looks at his new customers. His automatic smile widens, “Hey, m’ blond brother, where you been? Ain’t seen you in ages!” He comes out from behind the counter and he and Hutch enfold each other. Under the requisite white apron, Huggy is wearing colors and fabrics that had to have come from a 70s used clothing store: lime green, cobalt blue, magenta, and other colors for which there are probably no names. The combination almost makes the eyes water, but Huggy wears the ensemble with style! As the coffee pusher turns to Starsky, the face runs quickly through expressions of shock, amazement, joy, and then, suddenly, anger. Hutch puts his hand on Huggy’s shoulder and steps partially between his friends. “Yeah, Hug, it’s him. But, take it easy, okay? You have to let him tell you what happened.”

Huggy looks back and forth between his friends, seeing wariness in one and happiness in the other. He swallows whatever he was going to say and just wraps his arms around Starsky. After a moment, Starsky returns the embrace.

A trio of women have come in and Huggy steps away from Starsky; goes back behind the counter. “Make yourselves comfortable, gen’emen, I’ll be with ya in a jiff.” He turns to his new clients, smiling hugely. “An’ what may I concoct for you lovely ladies this fine mornin’?”

Hutch guides Starsky to a table near the bookcase wall. They sit down to await Huggy’s attendance. Starsky just stares around. “Books. And coffee. I never woulda figured.” He looks around some more and then back at Hutch. “Okay, so tell.”

“The coffee was a sideline at first. He’s got a cousin who’s a genius at repairing computers so Huggy started buying up ‘broken’ Kindles, literally for pennies, off Craig’s List and eBay, having his cousin fix them, in exchange for all the coffee he could drink, then selling them here for a tidy profit, but still way below retail. The cousin has his own computer repair business so he doesn’t need the money but Huggy says he’s thinking of renegotiating because this cousin can sure drink his expensive coffee.” He gestures to the bookshelves. “He lends the books out, just like a library, or sells them, whatever people want. They come here to buy their Kindles, read, drink coffee and just relax…. It was a bit of a gamble when he opened ten years ago, but coffee drinking and Kindles have become so popular there’s almost never a time he’s not busy. Plus, being fairly close to the university, students are some of his best customers. He teaches them street smarts, and they keep him young.” Hutch smiles toward Huggy, who is just finishing up charging one of the ladies’ credit cards, the fondness he feels for his friend obvious.

“I think he’s happier here than he ever was at ‘The Pits’.” Starsky looks the question at Hutch, but evidently realizing that Huggy has turned counter responsibilities over to one of his assistants, and is heading in their direction, Hutch just says, “Later.”

Huggy has a tray of drinks with him, puts a cup of regular coffee down in front of Hutch, a Coke in a genuine Coca Cola glass in front of Starsky, and sits down with his own mug. He turns steely eyes on Starsky. “This better be good.”

*************

Later, much later, apparently, since the table is littered with cups, glasses and the detritus of a few muffins and bagels, Starsky has turned slightly away from the others and is on his phone. “Can you give us about an hour, Sal?” He looks at Hutch for confirmation of the time period. “Yeah… Sounds good. We’ll meet you there.” He disconnects. “The great grandson, Louis, is there already, and drooling. But Sal says no hurry.” Starsky puts his phone away. “Sorry for the interruption, Hug.”

Huggy waves the apology away. “I don’t usually allow my customers to talk on their phones in here, it’s rude, ya know? But, you, my good buddy, are to consider yourself an exception.”

Whether or not he’s being kidded, Starsky nods. “Thanks.”

Huggy looks at each of them. “So, what’s next?”

Hutch knows more about the Amnesia Project than the others, but lacks the specifics. “I’m not really sure. His first appointment at the Project is tomorrow morning. They’ll do a workup and go from there. I’m not familiar with the methods used in memory retrieval so I guess you and I will both have to depend on him to let us know.”

But Starsky doesn’t appear to like that idea. “Wait just a minute. Whaddaya mean, you’ll have to depend on me?! You’re gonna be there, aren’t ya?”

“I will, if you want me to be. And if it’s allowed.”

“Damn right I want you to be there! I ain’t goin’ through this, whatever this is, alone, pal!”

The tension has somehow ratcheted up a bit, so Huggy puts a calming hand on each of his friends’ arms, turns to Starsky. “You ain’t gonna sell yer rig without at least lettin’ me look her over first, are ya?”

Starsky settles back. “No, Huggy, you gotta see her, for sure. But, if Louis turns out to be a guy I think will take care of her, I will sell.” He looks at Hutch for a few moments. “I’m not leavin’ again.” Then, back at Huggy, with conviction: “I have been there. And done that!”

Huggy is evidently happy to hear that. “Okay, then.” He looks at the clock on the wall. “Well, at this time of day, it’ll take you almost an hour to get home, so you’d better boogie.” He starts to gather up the cups, etc. Both the guys help and the table is cleared in no time. “Don’t be strangers, ya hear?” He gives them both a quick shoulder squeeze, then goes behind the counter, to confer with his assistant. Hutch and Starsky head for the door.

*************

At the storage yard, later that afternoon, Hutch and Sal are waiting in companionable silence. After a few minutes, the big red rig comes around the corner into the yard, is backed expertly into it’s slot. Starsky climbs down from the passenger’s side, and a tall, rangy man, probably in his mid-20s, dressed in jeans, boots, shirt and plaid jacket, climbs down from the driver’s side. As he steps to the ground, he’s seized by a coughing spell, which he controls quickly, but then sneezes twice in rapid succession. Starsky waits patiently at the front of the truck as the man finally straightens up, takes out a handkerchief and blows his nose, puts the rag back in his pocket, then comes around to meet him. “Sorry ‘bout that. Can’t seem to lose this cold.” They shake hands firmly. Then, with large smiles on both of their faces, they walk toward Hutch and Sal.

“He’s gonna let me have ‘er, Grampa! I can’t believe it. Thank you so much.” He throws his arms around the much smaller man, who just grins.

“You’re welcome, Louis.” Sal steps back and looks at his great grandson, seriously. “Four percent interest.”

The seriousness is returned. “Yes, sir. First of every month.”

Sal nods, evidently satisfied; turns to Starsky. “I’ll have a check for you tomorrow.” He holds out his hand and Starsky takes it. “What made you decide to sell?”

Starsky looks at Hutch while he answers: “I’m home, Sal. Not goin’ anywhere again.” He takes the house key they’d had made that morning, on the way downtown, off his key ring and gives the ring, with all the truck’s keys, the remote and new gate key, to the proud new owner of the big red truck. Then, he thinks of something, grabs the ring back from a startled Louis, turns to Hutch. “Would you give me a hand for a minute, please? There’s something I need to get.”

Hutch walks with him toward the rig. Starsky opens the passenger side storage locker and removes two large, probably-custom-made padded and pocketed roll aboards; re-locks the compartment. He and Hutch each extend the handle on their suitcase and they walk back to Sal and Louis. “Sorry, Louis, you can’t have this.”

Hutch, Sal and Louis all have curiosity written across their faces but aren’t going to ask. Starsky smiles, appearing self-conscious. “It’s my telescope.”

Hutch is happily surprised. “You have a telescope? What kind? How big?” He looks more closely at the case he is holding onto.

“Celestron. Eight inch. Under a dark sky you’d be surprised what you can see. Hank taught me everything he knew about the stars, which was quite a bit. Whenever we stopped in a place that didn’t have too much light pollution, we’d set up his four inch and he’d teach me. Early this year, I sold that one and bought this.” He looks at each of the others. “Know of any dark sky sites around here?”

The others shake their heads, but Hutch isn’t to be denied a new interest, especially if it’s one his partner will share with him. “No, but we’ll find one if it exists. That’s what the internet is for.”

Starsky is evidently more than ready! “Great! Let’s go do it.” He shakes hands with Sal and Louis again and, telescope case rolling along behind, starts for home.

Hutch quickly shakes hands with the other two and with a “See ya,” hurries after his partner. “Hey, wait up!”

Hutch catches up. “I don’t think we should go anywhere tonight though. Even if we find a place. You need to get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Okay. But we can check the internet anyway, right? Mount Pinos, up in the Grapevine, was pretty dark, the last time we stopped there. And out around the Salton Sea was good.”

Hutch wants to keep up this enthusiasm. “We’ll sure check.” New thought. “What do you feel like having for dinner?”

Starsky suddenly looks like a little kid, his voice goes soft. “I know it’s probably not something you eat very often but I really love….”

“Pizza,” Hutch finishes. Starsky looks surprised but then, of course this guy would know he loves pizza. He smiles, kid-like again. “Yeah, pizza.”

Hutch returns the smile, four-fold. “You got it.”

*************

Later that evening, a pizza box is empty on the coffee table, along with four beer cans. Starsky has set up the telescope in a cleared floor space, with its companion laptop on the dining table, and is showing Hutch how to operate it. “It’s called a go-to, which means you tell the computer what star, planet or stellar object you want to look at, the computer tells the ‘scope, and, as long as that object is above the horizon, the ‘scope slews right to it.”

“‘Slews’?”

“Yeah. That means, moves. It’s all computer controlled, of course. And this one’s wireless. Also, it’s got the newest technology and doesn’t even have to be aligned. All you do is set it up, point it at the sky and, if stars are visible, it figures out where it is, then tells the computer.” He grins at Hutch, almost sheepishly. “It’s too easy, really… But then, I guess I’ve always been pretty lazy.” He looks at Hutch, questioningly.

“I’m not goin’ there, partner.” He walks around the telescope, peering closely at the finder scope, then the eyepiece, during: “Tell me what we’ll be looking at, when we get to Mount Pinos.”

Starsky gets kid-happy again; goes to one of the cases and takes a magazine out of a pocket. He leads Hutch to the couch and hands him the current issue of ‘Astronomy.’ With a sly eyebrow wiggle and a conspiratorial voice, he whispers: “Check out the centerfold.”

Hutch sits and opens the magazine as directed but, instead of the expected photo of a beautiful woman, discovers a star chart. Starsky leans over and points: “See here? That’s Pegasus in his box stall. Andromeda is just below and wait ‘til you see M-Thirty-One through this baby,” pointing at the scope.

Hutch is already apparently lost; amateur astronomy is something he’s never experienced, for some unknown reason. “M-Thirty-One?”

“That’s the Andromeda Galaxy. But it wasn’t until the 1920s that anyone knew it wasn’t some fuzzy object here in the Milky Way. Edwin Hubble was the one who……”

This conversation will go on for a while, Starsky happily sharing his enthusiasm for the stars with his best friend.

************

Next morning, at the Project, Starsky has just had his initial MRI. The bed of the instrument slides out of the assembly and Starsky sits up. Marjorie and Hutch come into the room. Her attitude is very up beat. “Fabulous images, Dave! Really good! Nadine is printing out a few hard copies now. Get dressed, go have a cup of coffee, and I’ll see you both in my office in about half an hour, okay?” She smiles at each one and leaves. Hutch helps Starsky down off the bed and hands him his clothes. Neither has anything to say at the moment; they’ll wait to hear Marjorie’s findings.

Half an hour later, in her office, Marjorie is seated in one of three chairs in front of the desk, to the left of Starsky. Hutch is to his right. She has a thick folder on her lap, Starsky has several glossy hard copies of his image scans on his knees, not touching them. Marjorie puts her hand, palm-down, on the file in her lap. “I must say, Dave, from reading your medical history, I’m truly amazed that you’re in as good shape, physically, as you are. Ken hadn’t told me about the shooting; you’ve healed remarkably well from that, although your lungs will always be at risk. But you know that. Also, your head has absorbed more trauma than any six people I’ve ever met.” She smiles radiantly at Starsky. “You are a medical miracle.” Starsky and Hutch exchange a long look.

She sees the look but doesn’t inquire. “So I’m going to ask a favor of you. I want to write a book about your case, Dave. We suspect there are many people out there who have amnesia, to some extent, but are afraid to ask for help. They either think they can’t afford it, or don’t want anyone to know about their ‘illness.’ Amnesia is not an illness, and it can be treated. I want them to know about you and what you’ve been through. If you can get your memory back, they may be able to as well.” She waits until the guys have processed what she said. “You don’t have to give me your answer now, but please think about it, okay?”

“I don’t have to think about it. Sure, you can write about me.” Starsky smiles at Hutch. “Enough reporters already have.”

She evidently isn’t sure what that means, but lets it go. “Well, let me show you what we learned this morning.” She picks up the glossies and shuffles them. Putting them back down on Starsky’s knees, so that Hutch can see what she’s describing, too, she uses a soft-tipped stylus to point to three separate areas of the brain cross-section. “You see these areas? They tell us that your brain has been bruised. Oh, yes, the brain can be bruised, just like any other organ or part of the body. But, it heals, just like any other organ or part of the body! Depending on the severity of the injury, it can take days, or… years.” She points to one area. “This frontal bruise appears to be the most recent, and it’s healing well. But it was quite severe.”

She shifts in her chair, to look more directly at her audience. “I did some research yesterday, while Nadine was getting your records, and I learned that the Northridge earthquake, in the vicinity of the Santa Monica freeway, involved significant vertical and horizontal movement. The first was three feet vertically, and two feet laterally. That was followed immediately by a drop of six feet and another lateral shift.” She pauses to allow them to imagine the consequences. “It’s truly amazing that more of the freeway didn’t collapse.” She becomes even more intense. “So, there you are, driving across the I-10, when you and your car…” She looks at Starsky. “Seat belt?”

Starsky thinks. “Probably… I’ve always used them since then, so I’d guess I had it on that night.”

Hutch adds, “Yeah, we always wore ‘em, once we were off the streets.”

“Air bag?” Starsky evidently has no idea, but Hutch shakes his head. “No. Not in that car.”

“Okay. Well, anyway, you and the car were suddenly flung upward and sideways. Even with your seat belt on, I’m willing to bet your head hit the roof. Then, during the next few seconds, you were tossed around inside, as the freeway supports crumbled and the car fell…” She checks her notes. “Forty-three feet.” She looks back up, seriously, at each of them. “That’s a long drop. And a hell of an impact at the bottom.” She points to the scan in Starsky’s lap, and the frontal bruise. “I believe this injury dates from that night. You hit the front of your head, very hard, on something, possibly the steering column, windshield, dashboard… something…” Another look at Starsky. “You weren’t bleeding when you regained consciousness?”

Starsky thinks a minute, then shakes his head. “No. When I woke up after the beating, I had scrapes and cuts but no real bleeding. Anywhere.”

“The impact area would have been covered by your hair so the external bruising wouldn’t have been obvious. I’m not surprised the doctors, especially in that crisis situation, didn’t notice.”

She straightens her shoulders and sits back a little. “I believe that injury is the source of your amnesia.” Suddenly, she smiles again. “And I also believe, based on the healing I see in the other areas, that your memory will come back. With time. And a little nudging.”

Starsky darts a quick look at Hutch, then looks back at Marjorie. “I’ve already had a peek.” Briefly, he describes his ‘key over the lintel’ moment.

“And that didn’t trigger any other thoughts, memories, flashes of insight?” Starsky shakes his head, sadly. She puts a hand on his arm. “Please don’t be discouraged, Dave. It’s a great start!” She takes the glossies and puts them on top of his medical file. “We’ll have you come back in three weeks, and do another set of scans. But, let me tell you this, for a man your age, and with your medical history, your brain is wonderfully alive.” She smiles, but in a sad way this time. “In many men, when they reach their 70s, we see that their brains have begun shutting down. Lots of areas show little, if any, color. It’s as if those portions have already died.” She points, happily, at the top scan again. “Not yours, though! Look at the lovely rainbow. You’ve stayed active, Dave, and so has your brain.”

She gets up and moves behind her desk, puts down the files. “Your memory will come back. I’m going to go way out on a limb here and promise you that.” She sends a cautionary look to each. “But it will probably take time. More time than you think you have the patience for, but that’s what you must have. Patience.” She looks at Hutch. “You can help, Ken. Don’t let him get discouraged, but don’t nag either. It will be a fine balance, for both of you, but I believe it’ll be worth it.”

She straightens up, ‘dusting her hands off,’ smiles warmly. “Now, you’ll have to scram, so I can get ready for my next patient.”

*************

On the way home, both men are silent. Then Starsky shakes his head and his somber mood falls away. “Let’s call Huggy. See if he can get away for a couple of hours. I want to show him the rig before it’s out of my life.”

“Good idea, Ollie.”

It only takes a moment for the penny to drop. “Laurel and Hardy?” Hutch nods. “It’s a shtick we used to do?”

“Sometimes.”

Another piece added to the puzzle, but no additional memories. Oh well, patience, she said. He pulls up Huggy’s number and hits ‘call.’

**********

Later, Hutch and Sal stand at the back door of the grocery store, watching as Starsky and Huggy walk around the big red rig, Starsky pointing out and explaining all its myriad features and details. Huggy nods, and smiles, a lot. Finally, they join the other men.

“Sorry I can’t give you a ride, Hug. She’s not mine any more.”

“Quite all right, m’man. Imagination’s just fine, thanks.”

They all turn and go back inside the store. Hutch asks “Can you stay for dinner, Hug?”

“Thanks, but I need to get back. Charlie’s my newest hire and I don’t want to leave him alone too long. Can I get a ride?”

“You have to ask?”

They take their leave of Sal and move outside. Starsky eyes the Prius’ small back seat; looks at Hutch. “I think I’ll walk for a while, if you guys don’t mind my bailing on ya.” He points West. “The ocean’s that way, right?”

Hutch looks at him for a long moment. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just want to walk.”

Hutch nods, opens the driver’s door as Huggy opens the passenger’s. “See you at home then.”

Hutch and Huggy get in the car and it pulls out. Starsky watches it go, then turns and heads toward the beach.

The tide is out and long lines of seaweed and man made debris define the last high water mark. Starsky walks slowly on the still-wet sand, his hands deep in his pockets. What ifs… What nows… But, gradually, his normally upbeat personality reasserts itself and be begins to smile. Everything is going to be okay, he just knows it. He has a check in his pocket that makes him suddenly fairly wealthy, he owns half a house in Venice, and, to top all of that, he has a friend and partner who would do just about anything for him. And had, according to the scrapbook. The scrapbook! Angling away from the beach, he knows it’s time to learn more.

***********

The next couple of days pass in a welter of old haunts and crime scenes visited, the scrapbook read and cases discussed, friends lost and deeply missed. Hutch tells Starsky about their Captain and his wife, Edith, both gone now, their children - Cal’s approaching retirement age himself, a Captain of detectives, and Rosie’s a twenty-year veteran of the teaching wars. Then he relates his own experiences in the earthquake that had shattered both their lives, his career with Cold Cases and Missing Persons, his retirement, and subsequent home improvement and gardening exploits. Then there’s hours of talk about the bad guys they had put away, the horrors they’d each been through but survived, better, stronger and more committed to each other. No new memories surface from all the talk but Starsky’s learning about his former life and that’s exhilarating all by itself.

********************

One day they stop at Hutch's bank, which turns out, is still Starsky's bank, since Hutch, even though he had power of attorney, never closed his account. With twenty years' accumulated interest, the balance is substantial. Sal's check is deposited and, with the assistance of the branch manager, Adam Furst's account is transferred from a bank in L.A. Suddenly, Starsky finds himself embarrassingly semi-wealthy. Waiting for the manager to return with the last of the papers that require signing, Starsky has a question for his partner. "Why didn't you ever have me declared dead?"

Hutch's answer is as uncomplicated as the gentle look he gives his friend. "Because I didn't believe you were."

Starsky finds he is deeply touched; reaches to put a hand on Hutch's arm, unable to find the words to express his thanks.

***************

Time is spent with Hutch introducing Starsky to every plant in the house, and on the porch, while he waters, talks to them, and cares for them. And, during the tour, Starsky manages to straighten and arrange the stacks of newspapers, magazines and books into slightly less chaos, hanging a jacket and a shirt in the closet, and putting dirty clothes in the washing machine under the staircase. Hutch is intensely happy to have his partner back, sharing these mundane ‘chores,’ and Starsky seems pleased to be included.

************

Sunday afternoon of that week, Starsky begins to cough and have a little trouble breathing. Hutch is immediately concerned, knowing how at-risk his partner’s lungs are. “No, hospital!” is Starsky’s reaction to Hutch’s suggestion. “Even before I read all those articles, I knew I hated ‘em! Not goin’,” he vows, looking imploringly at Hutch. “You’ve gotten me through stuff like this. You probably know more than the doctors. So just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I don’t wanna go to the hospital.” This last is said with such childlike anguish Hutch can’t argue. Starsky is sent up to bed and covered with extra quilts, dosed with cough syrup and Tylenol and told not to get up, except to go to the bathroom, for the next forty-eight hours.

Morose, but obviously grateful, Starsky does as he’s told. The flu-like symptoms persist though and Hutch calls Marjorie. She listens, then assures him he’s doing everything he can and the cold or flu Starsky has evidently caught from Louis, will eventually go away. If he should get worse though, Hutch will have to overrule Starsky’s objections and get him to a hospital.

For two days, Hutch ministers to his partner, vowing to himself that they’ll both come through this set back. At first Starsky feels so unwell he gladly accepts all Hutch’s coddling, his bringing orange juice every hour, cajoling him into eating some soup and crackers, even though he has no appetite, sitting with him, awake or asleep. Every time Starsky wakes up Hutch is there, sitting next to the bed, listening for any labored breath or restlessness.

On the third day, Hutch helps Starsky into the bathroom where the heat has been on for twenty minutes, making the room sauna-like; he’s drawn a bath in the tub and helps Starsky into the hot, jet-driven water. Then he sits on the john, reading aloud from ‘Astronomy,’ while Starsky soaks away the last of the illness. Helping him out of the tub as soon as the water starts to cool, Hutch wraps him in a huge, fluffy, warm towel and bundles him back to bed, where he helps him into a pair of clean pajamas. But Starsky is evidently feeling better and Hutch knows his partner is beginning to think he’s being a burden, that he can do this stuff by himself. So Hutch isn’t really surprised when Starsky tries to assert himself. What does surprise him though are the words and the sharp, irritated tone of voice: “Quit hoverin’, Hutch!”

After a moment of frozen silence, Starsky sits down, heavily, on the bed. Hutch sits beside him, but they don’t look at each other. Finally, Starsky speaks softly. “I’ve said that before….. And I remember when.”

He looks at Hutch, who returns the gaze, questioning and suddenly almost hopeful. “We were in my apartment. You were there, taking care of me after I got out of the hospital. It’s only a minute or so of the memory but I was feeling like you were doin’ too much for me, and had been for way too long, that maybe I couldn’t even breathe without your help. And I got pissed. At myself, I guess, but I lashed out… At you.” Tears well in his eyes. “Why did I do that?”

Hutch can’t keep the feelings in check any longer; he puts his arm around Starsky’s shoulders and draws his partner to him. “Aw, Starsk….”

Starsky immediately pulls away, a startled, then comprehending look in his eyes as he stares at Hutch. “That’s what you used to call me… Not Dave, or Davey, or Starsky, but… ”

“Starsk,” Hutch repeats softly. Then he smiles, tears in his eyes as well.

Without urging this time, Starsky puts his arms around Hutch and leans against him. “An’ I called you Hutch.” He looks up into the sky blue eyes.

Hutch can only nod. Starsky snuggles back against his partner. “Real memories… Wow.”

Needing the contact, but also realizing Starsky could catch a chill again, Hutch finally gets up and maneuvers the patient back under the covers; pulls them up to the chin and tucks him in. “Go to sleep for a few minutes, if you can, and I’ll go make us some lunch.” At Starsky’s less-than-enthusiastic expression, he smiles. “How about that second pizza we didn’t finish before you got sick?” Starsky’s frown turns to an instant grin and he begins to get up. But Hutch pushes him back, gently. “Stay. I’ll heat it and bring it up.”

Starsky wriggles back down under the blankets. “Yes, mom.”

******************

The next evening, sitting outside in the garden, Starsky bundled up against the first genuine Fall chill, they’re in companionable silence, drinking their second beers. But Starsky can sense that Hutch has something on his mind. Finally, he can’t stand the suspense any longer. “Spit it out, Hutch. What’s botherin’ ya?”

After long moments, when Starsky begins to think he might not respond, Hutch asks, softly, “Why didn’t you ever try to find out who you were?”

The question takes Starsky by surprise but he realizes Hutch deserves an answer. “I did! But there was so much chaos after the ‘quake, every place I went, they didn’t want to talk to someone who’d only lost their memory. Everybody else had lost so much more. They all said ‘come back in a month or two, and we’ll try to help.’ I probably would have but, by then, Hank and I were on the road.”

“Afterward though? When you came back to California.”

Starsky tries to think, and remember that time, but can’t come up with a good answer. “I really don’t know. My head hurt for a long, long time and I tried not to think about anything that made it hurt worse. Unfortunately, trying to remember who I was, was one of those things. So, until I stopped having the headaches, I quit tryin’. After a couple of years, the pain finally went away, but by that time Hank and I had a good relationship going, I was havin’ a good time, seeing a lot of the country, and I sort of put it on the back burner.”

He knows this isn’t helping Hutch fill the void of twenty years without his best friend, but all he can do is tell the truth. “I did start looking though, about five years after the ‘quake. We were outside of Chicago, and I figured there had to be somebody there that knew about amnesia. Wrong. I contacted three supposedly professional memory-restoration doctors and they were all phonies. Shock treatments, drugs, hypnosis, psychiatric sessions; that was their idea of helping me get my memory back. No thank you!” He glances at Hutch but his face is completely in shadow.

“Over the years, I checked with other places but they were all the same; just wanted my money. So I finally gave up…. Until I saw the segment on CNN.”

When Hutch finally breaks the following silence, his voice is quietly neutral. “Why didn’t you go to the cops?”

Starsky is stunned. “Oh, my god. It never occurred to me.”

His mind races and he realizes how easy it all might have been. And then the guilt comes crashing down. He has to swallow a few times before he can speak again. “All I had to do, I guess, was go to the Missing Persons division of any large city, let ‘em fingerprint me, take my picture, and put me in their computer system.”

Although Hutch’s face is still shadowed, Starsky exchanges a long look with the dark-shrouded eyes. “You probably sent my file to every cop shop in the country…. Didn’t you?”

Hutch’s voice is still quiet. And now there’s a note of acceptance in it, too. “After I realized amnesia could be the answer, yeah. I did.”

Starsky is devastated. “I’m so sorry, Hutch. I lost all those years for us.”

Hutch’s voice has gone even softer. “Don’t. You were alive and well. I know that now. And you were happy. That’s all I care about. I’ve become a bit of a fatalist, I suppose. Whatever happened was meant. You’re back now and I choose to think that was meant… Let’s leave it there, okay?” He smiles and puts his hand gently on Starsky’s forearm. Even from the shadows, the smile lights up the garden.

“Why are you so good to me?”

“I love ya, you big lug.”

Starsky can only shake his head in wonder; how lucky can a guy get?

*****************

Several evenings later, after a particularly grueling retrieval and review of the memories surrounding Vic Humphries, and everything that bad-toupee jerk had put them both through, Starsky picks up Hutch’s guitar and hands it to him. “You play this thing, doncha?”

Hutch only smiles but he takes the guitar, makes sure it’s still in tune, not having been played in a couple of weeks, then breaks into the opening bars and riffs of ‘Black Bean Soup’. Starsky perks right up. “Hey! I know that one!” As Hutch begins to sing, Starsky joins him. ‘All I want is Black Bean Soup, and you to bring it to me. Be my love, while love will stay, and wear your ribbons for me…’.”

Suddenly, Starsky has an epiphany, “That’s a love song! I never realized it before but that’s a love song. And I’m singin’ it to you!” He gets up, a bemused expression on his face, heads into the kitchen. “An’ I don’t even feel weird doin’ it… Now, that’s weird.” He grabs a couple of beers out of the fridge and brings them back, opens one for himself, gives the other to Hutch, who opens his and drinks a few swallows. “Hank would take me to the clubs he knew in various cities, ones where they had bands you could sing with. That was one of the songs people always requested.”

Hutch takes another swallow, then puts the can down and begins strumming another song while Starsky reminisces. “He had a favorite club in just about every city and town.” He grins at Hutch. “And a lady in each and every one. Hank was a charmer, he was.” A chuckle follows the smile. “Almost always managed to find a friend of hers for me, too.” He sits back, a somewhat Cheshire-cat-like smile on his face. “I had no idea what my sex life was like before the ‘quake, but, after I went on the road with Hank, it was never dull! ‘Always leave ‘em happy and wantin’ you back.’ That was Hank’s motto. And he lived it, believe me. Every woman in every town was happy to see him, whenever we turned up…. It was exhausting, but it sure was fun.”

Suddenly, embarrassed to have been talking about his conquests with this still-almost-a-stranger, Starsky finishes his beer and changes the subject. “Do we know any Jim Croce?” Then he snaps his fingers. “Oh, wait! Did I see a guitar case in the closet in my room.” Hutch nods. “Do I play?”

“You do. Why don’t you go get it?”

Before the sentence is finished, Starsky is bounding up the stairs. Hutch continues to strum and run riffs. Within a minute, Starsky is back, carrying the case. He sits in the other arm chair, puts the case on the floor and opens it carefully, lifts out a second acoustic instrument. “It’s just like yours!”

“Not exactly. But close. A cousin of…”

Starsky overlaps and finishes for him, “… Huggy’s found it for us.”

Hutch laughs and begins another upbeat song. “You’ll have to tune it. I loosened the strings a long time ago.”

Starsky goes quiet. “When you thought I wasn’t comin’ back.”

Hutch shrugs and keeps strumming. Starsky holds the guitar out. “Would you do it?… Please?”

Hutch leans his guitar against the chair arm, takes Starsky’s and, within minutes, has it in tune with his. He hands Starsky’s back to him, picks up his own again, begins playing something soft. Starsky holds the somewhat strange, somehow intimidating thing for a few moments, then puts the fingers of his left hand on the neck, feeling the strings that cross the frets, the fingers of his right hand lightly plucking at the strings over the hole. “My brain doesn’t remember this, but I think my hands do.” He smiles delightedly at Hutch. But then, another thought stops him. “Wait! I’m left-handed. Why am I holding this thing right-handed?”

Hutch’s look is enigmatic. “When you wanted to learn, Paul McCartney just wasn’t available, I’m afraid.”

“You taught me.”

Hutch nods and keeps playing. It’s another of the songs they used to love and, before long, Starsky’s hands ‘remember’ what they’re supposed to do and they’re playing, and singing together.

******************

One evening, winding down after ‘the heroin discussion,’ and all the memories that had come surging back concerning Ben Forest, and the horror he had inflicted on Hutch, Starsky suddenly thinks of something he’s been meaning to ask.

“So, tell me what you knew about amnesia.”

“What?”

“That first day at the center. You said something about amnesia and a practical joke.”

Hutch’s face colors, as if he’s uncomfortable with the query. “I’d rather not talk about it. I’m not very proud of myself.”

“Is pride an issue with us? I would have thought, after everything we’ve been talking about, since I started getting my memory back, that neither of us would have any left.”

“No…” Hutch’s body language and voice betray uneasiness. “At least I don’t think it is. It never was. I don’t think…” He trails off.

Starsky can sense that, whatever this is all about, Hutch really needs to unburden himself. So he tries to lighten things up, get a smile out of him. “That’s your problem, Blondie.” Big grin. “You think too much.” When Hutch doesn’t relent, Starsky even sticks an elbow gently into his partner’s ribs. “Aw, come on, we’re buddies, aren’t we? How bad can it be?” When Hutch still doesn’t answer, he knows he’s missing something here; Hutch is hurting. He softens his voice. “What happened?”

“You really don’t remember?”

“Not yet.”

Hutch looks out the window, down at his hands, anywhere except into his best friend’s trusting eyes. “I faked amnesia… In the hospital, after an accident… I told the doctors, the nurses, even Dobey, that I didn’t remember who you were.”

This revelation is followed by a long silence. Starsky looks away but finds he isn’t really upset, just curious. Finally, he looks back. “Why?”

Hutch looks away for long moments and Starsky begins to think he isn’t going to answer. When he finally does, it’s in a voice full of defeat. “It was your driving.”

Of all the possibilities, that one hadn’t occurred to Starsky. “My _what_?”

Hutch’s anxiety shows itself: “We were chasing a… a couple of perps and I… I thought you were driving a little… well, uh… recklessly.”

Starsky looks at him for a long moment, really trying to understand, and suddenly, flashes of memory crowd around. “You were yellin’ at me to slow down…”

Hutch puts a gentle hand on Starsky’s arm. “Sometimes, you seemed to drive like a maniac.”

Starsky’s retort is immediate and he angrily shakes off the hand. “No, I didn’t! I was always in control! I…” But then he stops, thinks, remembers, and realizes, maybe that’s not true. He shrugs, just a tiny bit sheepishly. “Well, almost always… But you made me mad that day. I remember now. You said we should let those guys get away… two guys in a… a Mustang. You said just let ‘em go. But, we never let the bad guys get away! Not if we could help it. If I’d stopped, it would have been the first chink in our armor. I couldn’t let that happen. So I…” And the realization dawns on him. “… drove like a maniac.”

He turns to Hutch, stricken. “I coulda gotten you killed.”

Hutch’s voice softens. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

Starsky is reliving the event in his mind and not enjoying the replay. “It was all my fault.”

Hutch seems to realize that he needs to put a stop to his partner’s guilt trip, being no stranger to those himself. “No, it wasn’t, Starsk. You were in control, really, we would have caught ‘em. I was just upset and my yelling made things worse. You had no way of knowing that truck would be there.”

Starsky isn’t quite ready to be cajoled. “But I coulda gotten you killed!”

Hutch has donned his Gentle Persuader hat. Softly: “But you didn’t. You killed the Torino instead.”

That elicits a soft chuckle. “Yeah. My beautiful striped tomato.”

Hutch tries a smile. “No permanent damage. Merl fixed her up, as usual.”

Starsky’s memory of the incident is expanding exponentially. “Yeah… Merl, fixing up the Torino… Jeez, how many times did he have to do that?”

Hutch’s hand finds Starsky’s arm again. “Who counted?”

They exchange rueful smiles and Starsky squeezes the hand on his arm, holding it there.

But Hutch evidently hasn’t finished his expiation yet. “Nothing you did excused my cruelty though. I woke up in the hospital, so scared and angry, I couldn’t think straight. After they told me you weren’t hurt badly, the idea just came to me; I could teach you a lesson. But if I’d thought about it for even a second, I’d have realized it was a mean-spirited, cheap trick, and a really nasty thing to do. I guess I just didn’t allow myself to think about it. They brought me into our room and I began playing my part. And kept playing it, to the hilt.” He tightens his grip on Starsky’s arm, his pleading eyes finding, and holding his partner’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Starsk. I never even told you, afterward, how sorry I was. And ashamed. I couldn’t believe I’d done that to you. It was unforgivable. But I didn’t know how to apologize; couldn’t find the words.”

Starsky’s having his own problems with the memories now, reliving those hours in the hospital room. “I thought I’d lost you. Thought I’d destroyed everything we had together. Our friendship. Our partnership. If you didn’t remember me….” His sudden tears stop him.

Hutch is seemingly on the verge of reaching out to wipe the tears away; settles for gripping Starsky’s arm again, firmly. “Never happen, Starsk.”

Starsky looks at him, grateful, but then reality takes over. “Funny how a little thing like a six point seven earthquake did what you were only pretending.” He thinks about what he just said and has to amend it. “Not really funny.”

Hutch’s voice is full of understanding. “I know.” And, finally, he has the words: “I’m so sorry, Starsk.” He looks again into his partner’s eyes and tries a small smile. “How’s that for a thirty-five-years-late apology?”

Starsky returns the smile and pats the hand on his arm. “Pretty darn good.” Then he shakes himself, mentally, and addresses something else he’s thought of, and a welcome change of subject: “So, did I ever drive a big rig?” As soon as he’s said it, more memories come flooding back. “Yeah, I did…. Joe…”

“Durniak” they both say, simultaneously.

Starsky’s grinning with remembrance now. “We were on the road, drivin’ around, waiting to see which team would be the one to transport Joe. Turned out it was us.”

Hutch’s enjoyment of the shared moment doesn’t last. “Didn’t do us any good though. Terry Nash got him after all.”

Starsky’s cheer vanishes, too. “Poor Terry. Now that was a rotten thing to do to anybody; not only take away their real memories, but substitute fake ones. And make them hate a stranger so much they’d murder him.” They’re both silent for a few moments, then Starsky voices their mutual thought: “Some of these memories suck! Ya know?”

*********************

One afternoon, they’re heading home after having had lunch at Huggy’s, driving through a part of downtown that has not yet been renovated, when a trio of men bursts out the front door of a liquor store, run for a van parked in front and pile in. Without even thinking about it, Hutch pulls the Prius across traffic and blocks the van’s escape. He throws a “Stay here!” in Starsky’s direction as he rolls out of the car, behind a parked vehicle, drawing his gun. But Starsky has already bailed out of the Prius and crouches behind a car on his side. The van’s two passengers jump out, guns drawn, as Hutch hollers, “Police! Don’t move!!!” He hasn’t shown himself to the robbers, and they are about to separate and try to bracket the unseen problem, when Starsky sprints from the back of the van, throws a blocking tackle at both men’s backs and takes them down onto their faces. Hutch is there immediately, and disarms the shaken felons. He holds one down on the pavement with a knee as he yells to the people standing in the doorway of the liquor store. “Call 911!”

“Already done,” says the store’s probable owner, holding up his cell phone.

Hutch drags his captive closer to Starsky. “Can you hold ‘em both?” Starsky nods, puts a knee on each back and leans heavily, his hands holding two necks to the pavement. Hutch steps over the bodies and points the Walther at the terrified driver. “Out!” The young would-be robber, scoots across the seat and climbs out of the van, gets down on the sidewalk without being told, next to his companions. Hutch kneels on his back.

Starsky can’t help a sarcastic, “No cuffs, huh?”

“Nope.”

Starsky grins. “You’ve got a gun, but no cuffs.” He turns around and sits on one robber’s back, his legs across the back of the other.

Agreeing with the move, Hutch sits down on the back of his prisoner. He pushes aside momentary irritation that Starsky hadn’t listened to him, because he’s overwhelmed by his gratitude, and pride in his partner’s quick thinking and actions. “You shoulda stayed in the car, Starsk, but I sure am glad you didn’t… Thanks, partner.”

Suddenly, as sirens can be heard in the distance, Starsky begins to shake, his face going pale. “Hutch….” His partner is instantly alert. “I remember Lonnie Craig… The alley… And everything that led to Prudholm.”

Hutch doesn’t need to say anything, as black and whites converge from both ends of the street and screech to a halt at the curb.

*****************

The days pass and Starsky’s memories continue to appear, sometimes in clusters, sometimes singly. Little by little, his past is coming back into the light. To say the partners are ecstatic would be the world’s biggest understatement.

*****************

An entire night is spent at the amateur astronomy viewing area on Mt. Pinos, with other enthusiasts. Stars, planets, and stellar objects are viewed and written into Starsky’s log book. Hutch has to agree that M-Thirty-One is truly amazing. M-Fifty-Seven ain’t bad, either. Hutch is obviously enjoying himself so much, and Starsky is having such a wonderful time introducing his new best friend to the wonders of the stars, they stay long enough for Orion to come up, bringing the well-known and -photographed M-Forty-Two, the Great Orion Nebula, with it. Hutch has to agree that seeing the object through a telescope beats looking at it in a magazine all hollow. They’re pretty tired by the time they get home at dawn, but feel it was well worth the trip to the Grapevine and they’re already planning their next ‘star party.’

*****************

On another evening, Huggy and his entire staff join Sal and Louis at the house for an evening of delicious food and guitar playing/singing. Starsky and Hutch seem to have shed all the years they’ve been separated; they’re together again, and relishing every moment! Once in a while though, Hutch notices that Starsky is silent, amid everyone else’s good cheer; he watches Hutch as if he were trying to discern his partner’s innermost thoughts and feelings, and not completely sure if he’s on the right track, or has gotten something terribly wrong. Hutch is aware of the scrutiny but, since Starsky doesn’t seem to want to talk about whatever’s bothering him, Hutch is content to wait.

*****************

Starsky’s next MRI shows improvement even over the first ‘great’ one. Later, in her office, Marjorie puts a tape recorder on the desk, with the partners’ approval, as they explain, in detail, how each memory, and cluster of memories, was triggered, or had just came back spontaneously.

Marjorie is evidently trying to keep her enthusiasm in check, but a pleased expression finally takes precedence: this is going to be a very good book. She has written the preliminary chapter and sends a hard copy home with Starsky to read and add comments.

*****************

That evening, over a celebratory dinner at Hutch’s favorite restaurant, Starsky is more close-mouthed than usual, but assures Hutch that he’s fine, just happy, and thinking about ‘things.’ At several points during the meal, and a decadent dessert, Hutch catches Starsky looking at him ‘funny.’ But, again, he’s assured that nothing’s amiss; Starsky says he just needs time to absorb all the new memories and they’ll talk about it when they get home.

*****************

Later, at home, Starsky still doesn’t bring up whatever subject he’s been thinking about so Hutch doesn’t push. They break out a couple of beers and the guitars. After a few raucous numbers, including ‘You Don’t Mess Around with Jim,’ ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,’ and the all-time-favorite-now, ‘Black Bean Soup,’ Hutch suddenly slows things down with the opening chords and refrain of ‘Time In A Bottle.’

At the end of that one, Starsky takes a deep breath, but doesn’t look at Hutch. After long moments, he begins playing a song Hutch doesn’t immediately recognize. Then, as Starsky begins to sing, ever so softly, he finally looks up and meets the slightly puzzled look in Hutch’s eyes.

I remember you

You’re the one who made my dreams come true

Just a few kisses ago.

I remember you

You’re the one who said I love you, too

Yes, I do, didn’t you know?

I remember, too, a distant bell

And stars that fell, like the rain, out of the blue.

The flood of joy Hutch feels, as his soul mate looks lovingly at him during every word of the song, is something he has longed for, but never allowed himself to believe he would ever experience again. Starsky has evidently remembered everything, including ‘them,’ and not only accepts it, but is embracing it. With his eyes only though, Starsky appears to be asking if it’s okay. If Hutch still feels the same way.

When my life is through

And the angels ask me to recall the thrill of them all

Then I will tell them I remember, tell them I remember,

Tell them I remember… you.

As the final word fades, Hutch leans his guitar against the side of his chair, gets up and goes to Starsky, gently takes that guitar and sets it aside, too. He holds out his hands and, as Starsky puts his own into them, Hutch pulls him to his feet, puts his hands on either side of Starsky’s face, his thumbs lightly tracing the cheekbones, sky-blue and indigo eyes locking for a long moment. Then Hutch kisses his soul mate. It’s a light, sweet kiss, full of promise, and promises. Hutch puts his arms around his partner, feeling the embrace returned fiercely, and buries his face in the salt ’n’ chocolate curls.

“Welcome home, Starsk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Words and music by Johnny Mercer and Victor Schertzinger


End file.
